


the athletics of loss

by nirav



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Warehouse 13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirav/pseuds/nirav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five years on, myka's copilot is still crippled, myka is still alone, and the world is still ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been poking at this since the day after I saw Pacific Rim. Mayhaps this will prompt me to get off my ass and finish it?

 

  
_oh, jane, they'll whisper your name_   
_and you won't feel the chains and you won't see the moss_   
_oh, jane there's an art to the game_   
_the aesthetics of love, the athletics of loss_

_sometimes someone drifts by and our nets get entwined in the sea_   
_and in time i might find they still mean something to me_

* * *

It happens faster than it should. 

They aren’t even supposed to _be_ there—their station is in Anchorage, they manage the gulf side, the Russians insisted they could handle anything else to the west—but Cherno Alpha is benched for repairs, the Kaidanovskys filling the airwaves with frustrated Russian chatter, so Gipsy Danger is sent swimming into the Bering Sea when a kaiju surfaces at three in the morning.

“So,” Pete says conversationally, bouncing up and down in his suit as they wait for the handshake.  “Bering Sea.  Any relation?”

“Yes,” Myka says, rolling her eyes at him.  “I’m related to a gigantic body of freezing cold salt water.”

“Had a drink with Dave last night.”  Pete shakes his head at her.  “He seems to think freezing cold would describe you.”

“Yeah, well, Dave is a baby,” she mutters.  Pete winks at her just before the handshake throws their minds together.  Myka counts the seconds on her inhale, familiar memories of alcoholism and a lost father winding in between flashes of her own childhood and an adolescence spent scrounging for books and the friendships her sister could so easily develop.

“Here we go,” Pete says.  “Let’s go swimming.”

They drop from the sky, Gipsy’s feet slamming onto the ocean floor.  Pete’s knee twinges at the impact—a wrestling injury that hates the cold—and Myka grits her teeth at the pain.  Water swirls around them as they make their way to the kaiju, and Pete’s determined smirk is identical to Myka’s, foreign on his face but constant in the drift.

The fight is short, the kaiju smaller than the last few they took down.  They land a metallic right cross to its face, bone crushing under Gipsy’s hand, and is staggers back, floundering in the shallows long enough for the cannon to load.

“Say hello to my little friend,” Pete recites before they unload three blasts into the kaiju’s chest.

“Every time,” Myka mutters.  “Really?  Every single time.”

“Correct,” Pete says with a nod.  Her head nods with his, and Gipsy’s with them, metal creaking in the cold, and Myka laughs in spite of herself. 

The kaiju—it’s _dead_ —suddenly jerks and flops to the side in the shallow water.  A scorpion-like tail unfurls, and they duck, Gipsy’s hands rattling up protectively, but it’s too late.  The impact shatters the right side of Gypy’s head, crashing Pete from his stance and into the back wall.  His helmet cracks into pieces and Myka is thrown from the drift, but she screams anyways, knees buckling under the pain from Pete’s crushed left arm. 

She manages to keep Gipsy upright, left arm useless tons of dead weight.  Blood trickles out of her nose, her skull feeling too small for her mind and all of the circuitry it’s connected to, pain echoing inside her helmet.  The plasma cannon in Gipsy’s right arm warms, and she bites halfway through her lower lip pulling Gipsy to the side to dodge the kaiju tail when it swings towards them again. 

The cannon loads, and she pauses, aims, fires right into its open mouth.  The blast shoots right through its skull at close range, radioactive blue blood and bits of bone exploding out the back before it collapses.

Gipsy falls, the strain too much for Myka to keep upright.  The earth shudders underneath them, waves running away as they fall, but Myka’s focus is on the battered form of her copilot until she passes out.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Five Years Later_

 

Myka’s in Columbus, Ohio when they find her again.  Her hair is longer, her shoulders more rounded, as she works as a bookkeeper for a local construction company.

“Myka.”  Her name comes on a voice she hasn’t heard in years, and she stiffens.  She sets her pen down carefully, looking up into familiar stern features.

“Marshal.”

“It took me quite a while to find you,” he says.  His accent is more casual than it was the day she left, his words more clipped.

“The whole point was that you wouldn’t.”  She tugs a hair tie off of her wrist and pulls her hair back into a ponytail.  “Why are you here?”

“I need you to come back,” he says simply.

“Unless someone’s made some brilliant advances in medicine and fixed Pete’s—”

“They haven’t.”  Pete appears from behind Pentecost, his voice quiet, eyes smiling.  His left arm is tucked into a sling and strapped snugly to his body.

“Pete,” Myka breathes out.  “Oh my—what are you doing here?”

“You heard the man, Mykes.”  He smiles crookedly.  “We need you back.  Real bad.”

“Badly,” she corrects absently.

“See, you’re already helping,” he says.  “Come on, we can find you a new pilot.”

“I—no, no way.”  Myka shakes her head, arms folding over her stomach.  “I can’t—I won’t let anyone else in my head, it’s not going to happen.”

“Marshal, can we have, like, two seconds?  Maybe two point five.  Super short minute.”

“One minute,” Pentecost says.  “We’re leaving in ten.”

“Roger roger,” Pete says with a smile and a salute.  Pentecost rolls his eyes and disappears out the front door. 

“That guy hates me now, you know,” Pete says.  “I don’t think he knew how much I irritated him until you weren’t there to slap me in the head all the time.”

“Pete,” Myka says quietly.  “How are you?”

“Can’t complain,” he says.  “We’re set up in Hong Kong now.  I’m learning Chinese _and_ Japanese.”

“Your arm—”

“Is busted,” he finishes for her.  “It’s a combat injury, Mykes, and it’s been five years.  I’m okay.  I’m probably a better basketball player now than I was before.”

“Pete, I can’t come back, I can’t do this again.”

“Do what?”

“Do—this,” she stumbles over the words, gesturing vaguely between them.  “You’re always going to be in my head, I can’t put anyone else in there.  I won’t.”

“That’s not true,” he counters.  “We’ve had people switch to new copilots before without a problem.  You know it’s not a matter of who’s been in your head, just who can fit with it _now_.”

“And what about you?  All of the parts of you that are going into the drift with me?”

Pete smiles sadly at her.  “I made peace will all of my shit a long time ago, Mykes.  I know you’re trying to protect me, but I don’t care if someone else gets in your head and sees pathetic Pete the drunk, because I’m not that dude anymore.”

“You’re my best friend,” she says weakly.  “I can’t—who else is gonna be able to go in there with me if they aren’t you?”

“We’ve already got a handful of candidates picked out.  Full psych and chem workup, any one of them could work.”  Pete stands up straighter, his eyes hardening.  “Look, okay, we need you to come back.  They’re scrapping the jaeger program entirely and we basically only have a few left.  Gipsy is the only Mark III left, and you and I are the only people who know how to run her.  Shit is getting super real super fast, and we don’t have time to train a new team from scratch.”

He smirks at her.  “You’re our only hope, Obi-Wan.”

“Oh my God, I hate you,” she mutters.  “I would hit you if you weren’t broken.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, threaten me later,” he says.  “Come on, get your crap and let’s go, we have a planet to save.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, familiar and affectionate, as she shrugs into her coat and grabs the backpack she keeps behind the desk.

“Oh, hey,” Pete says as they head outside.  Pentecost is waiting impatiently by a Humvee.  “I have a girlfriend.”

“No way,” Myka says.  “Really?  Someone is willing to put up with you snoring and stuffing biscuits into your mouth all the time?”

“Shockingly, yes,” he says drily.  “Amanda’s super cool, you’ll like her.”

“Are we going or are we gossiping?” Pentecost says crossly.

“Going, sir,” Myka says.  She smiles at Pete and follows Pentecost into the Humvee.  Pete is solid and familiar at her side the entire drive to the helicopter, and she leans against him for the flight to Hong Kong.

 

* * *

 

Shatterdome is a mess, but an organized one, and Myka settles into a room next to Pete’s on her first night there.  The flight was long, but she was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.  Once they arrived, the only bright point was the squealing cheer of Claudia Donovan, the jaeger technician who had been stationed with Pete and Myka in Anchorage; after that, she had been shuffled from one person to another, meeting physicians who insisted on full body scans and blood work, a psychiatrist who shoved a stack of folders detailing her co-pilot candidates into her hands, and the three jaeger teams left. 

The Wei Tang triplets were silent and sullen at the disruption to their basketball game; the Kaidanovskys merely nodded brusquely, shook her hand, and continued on their way.  Herc Hansen is familiar and formidable, the same gentle giant Myka remembers from years earlier, but his son is arrogant enough that Myka’s hands itch to punch him barely a minute after meeting him. 

Her night passes slowly, fitfully, and she makes her way with Pete to the training gym the next morning with circles under her eyes.  Pentecost and the six candidates are waiting, silent and still at their mat while the rest of the gym flurries with activity around them.

“Bering,” Pentecost says with a grimace that might have been welcoming on another man.  “Ready to get started?”

“Good morning to you, too, Marshal,” Pete says.  He grabs a staff off of the rack and tosses it to Myka.

“Lattimer,” Pentecost grumbles.  “Don’t irritate me this early in the morning.”

Myka smirks as Pete rolls his eyes, spinning the staff experimentally in her hands.

“Need a minute to warm up?”

“Nah,” Myka says after a moment.  She slips her feet out of her boots and sets them to the side with her jacket.  “Let’s get started.”

Fifteen minutes later, her staff clatters loudly against her opponent’s—Jeremy, 28, helicopter pilot with a Ken doll jawline and a truly unflattering haircut—and she ducks under his counterattack and twists around him, the tip of her staff pressing lingeringly between his vertebra, just below his skull.

“Four hits to one,” Pentecost’s assistant says quietly.

Myka sighs, stepping back from Jeremy.  “This isn’t going to work,” she says.  “No offense to you guys, but it just…we’re not compatible.”  She pauses to bow in Jeremy’s direction, paying her respects habitually, before taking a set on the steps next to Pete.

He squeezes her knee comfortingly, glancing up at Pentecost, whose head is bowed with his assistant’s as they flip through files.  “They’re all—boring,” Myka mumbles.  “No creativity, no innovation, no _thinking_.”

“Well, not everyone can be as fantastic as me, it’s true,” Pete drawls.  “The last guy was pretty, at least.  Some nice eye candy for you while you embarrassed him.” 

Myka snorts, elbowing him in the ribs, and stretches, glancing around the gym.  Her gaze lingers momentarily at her last opponent.  “Yeah, maybe,” she says.  Pete nudges his shoulder against hers, winking, and Myka ducks her head, ignoring his low wolf whistle and resuming her scan of the gym.

One mat over, a class of teenagers are being lead through a muay thai striking combination.  Myka pauses, watching with interest as the teacher—brunette, British, confident—demonstrates the combination against another teacher.   The combination is unusual, one Myka’s never seen before, and the students are clearly confused as the instructor slides through a flurry of strikes, her movements fast and fluid and effortless.

“Who’s that?” Myka pokes Pete in the arm and nods over towards the class.

“What, all of them?”

“No, the teacher.”

“Oh, Helena,” he says.  “Helena Wells.  Friend of Claudia’s, apparently she’s some kind of super genius tech-head.”

“And she knows muay thai,” Myka says slowly. 

“Mykes, no, bad idea,” Pete says.  “She and Pentecost do _not_ get along, she’s been trying to pilot for years and he’s been turning her down cold every time.”

“Yeah, well, apparently you guys need me or something,” Myka says.  She stands to face Pentecost and points over her shoulder with her staff.  “Let’s try her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Miss Wells is not a suitable candidate,” Pentecost says.

“Then prove it.”  She points at the assistant.  “Go get her, I want to try a bout.”

Pentecost glares at Myka.  “You have no authority to give orders here, Ranger.”

“Go get her, please?”  Myka folds her arms over her chest, staring him down.  “You came to _me_ , remember?  Do you want me to be any good to you, or do you want to be childish and stubborn?”

Pentecost stiffens, and Myka holds her ground, until he finally grimaces.  “Wells!” he shouts.  “Get over here.”

She jogs over, a skeptical look on her face.  “Marshal,” she says, pretention and diplomacy honeying her voice.

“Get a staff,” he says shortly.  “Bering wants a bout.”

Myka smirks and makes her way to the center of the mat, waiting for her opponent.  Pete stands by Pentecost, chewing on the thumbnail on his good hand, as Helena collects a staff and meets Myka in the middle.

“Bering isn’t your first name, is it?”

“Thankfully, no,” Myka says.  “You ever used one of these before?”

“Once or twice,” Helena says vaguely.  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why I’m using one now?”

“Call it a vibe,” Myka says, equally as vague.  “Watch your fingers.”

“I think I’ll be alright,” Helena counters with a smirk.

“Any day now,” Pentecost says gruffly.

They trade points, escalating to a tie at three quickly, trading loud blows as the staves crash against one another.  Helena moves fluidly and quickly, dancing in and out of Myka’s longer reach easily, until they skid to a halt simultaneously.  The tip of Myka’s staff hovers an inch from Helena’s forehead, Helena’s staff tickling the underside of Myka’s jaw.

“Four hits to four,” Pentecost’s assistant says.

Helena smirks, winking at Myka and stepping back to bow.  Myka returns the bow and shifts her gaze from Helena’s smile to Pentecost’s scowl.

“She’s my copilot,” Myka announces. 

“No,” Pentecost says.

“Excuse me, why the hell not?” Helena says.  Myka glances over at her, one eyebrow raised.  Her eyes are flashing, her shoulders set stubbornly.

“She’s my copilot,” Myka says again.  “We’re drift compatible, and no one else is.”

Pentecost’s jaw clenches, his forehead creasing with his glare.  Pete looks uncertainly back and forth from Myka to Pentecost; Myka stares coolly back.

“Test run in Gipsy this afternoon, 1400 hours.  No promises.”  Pentecost rotates on his heel and stalks out of the gym.

“Well,” Pete says, hopping down the stairs.  “That was fun, let’s not ever do it again.”

Myka prods him with her staff, rolling her eyes, before turning to face Helena once more and holding out her hand.  “Myka Bering,” she says.

“Helena Wells.”  The handshake is strong, her smile confident.

“Good to meet you.”  Myka cocks her head to one side, looking Helena up and down.  “So why doesn’t he like you?”

“Whoa, Mykes, maybe scale it back—”

“I need to know who I’m getting into this with,” Myka says firmly.  “It doesn’t mean we aren’t compatible, I just need to be prepared.”

“He thinks I’m too arrogant,” Helena says.  She smiles wolfishly at Myka, shrugging.  “He’s probably right.”

“Right,” Myka drawls.  She hands Helena her staff.  “Well, I need breakfast.  See you this afternoon.”

“Righty ho,” Helena says with a wink.  She salutes them comically as they leave.

“You _would_ find the hottest woman in the entire organization to be your pilot,” Pete grumbles as they leave.

“Pete!”

“What?  She is!  I don’t know how you keep finding the hot brunettes to be your copilots, but—”

“Oh, please,” Myka says.  “Don’t flatter yourself.  You’re not hot.”

“Excuse me,” Pete says indignantly.  “I’ll have you know that I am in very high demand with the ladies here.”

“You’re adorable, not hot,” Myka says.  She pats his cheek, backing through the door into the mess hall.  “Like a puppy, or a toddler.”

“Oh come on,” Pete says.  “I’m not adorable!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Myka called over her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Stepping back into the suit for the first time, Myka’s left arm starts to ache, a dull throb pushing at the back of her mind.

“Why’d they change the color?”

“I have no idea,” Pete mumbles.  His free hand tugs at the plating, and she slaps it away from her chest with a warning glare.  “I think Claudia wanted a Robocop look.”

“Less reflection,” Helena says from behind them.  She’s already suited up, helmet propped against her hip.  “A couple of pilots were having issues with sunlight bouncing off of the white and creating a glare.”

“Oh.”  Myka shakes her head and flashes half a smile.  “You ready for this?”

“As ever,” Helena says brightly. “After you.”

Myka grips at Pete’s hand for a short second.  “You’re fine,” he says quietly.  He presses a kiss to her forehead.  “Go be a badass.”

Myka smiles sadly at him, squeezing his hand once more, and follows Helena into the cockpit.

“You two are still close,” Helena states.

“He’s my best friend,” Myka says quietly, stamping her feet into place.  “Have you ever done this before?”

“Can’t say that I have.  You’re my first.”  Helena winks, and Myka rolls her eyes, flipping switches on autopilot.

“It’s—rough, the first time,” Myka says.  “Probably harder in this case than usual, because I still—Pete and I were in each other’s heads so many times that his memories are in there, too.  There’s going to be a lot going on at first.  You just have to—be still, as still as possible.  Don’t go chasing rabbits.”

Helena hesitates, mouth opening and closing twice, before Claudia’s voice crackles into their ears.  “Okay, ladies, let’s rock and roll.  Ready to go all Vulcan on this bitch?”

“Ready when you are, Claud,” Myka says.

“I don’t know what half of that means, but yes, ready,” Helena adds.  Myka glances over at her, smiling and mouthing _It’s going to be fine_.

“Neural handshake in five….four…”

Myka closes her eyes, focusing on the steady timbre of Claudia’s voice as she counts down.  Her entire body snaps with tension when she’s yanked into the drift, a thousand flashes of memory rushing around her.  Her rough father, her cowardly mother; Pete’s last drink; the first kaiju attack that flattened the hotel room she and Sam were staying at in San Francisco and his mangled, broken body; Pete walking his sister down the aisle at her wedding; Helena’s daughter lying dead on the ground; Pete’s arm being crushed and his mind yanked from the drift—

A rough cry rips out of Myka’s throat, her left arm sagging; Helena’s and Gipsy’s do the same, the entire machine lurching in its harness.  Somewhere, Claudia’s voice echoes in the background, drowning under the cacophonous sound of Gipsy’s cold metal and the wind over the Bering Sea, the pain in her arm, the acceleration of her heartbeat.

“Myka!  Get it together!” Pete shouts in her ear.  She gasps out a breath, her chest aching, and forces her eyes open.  She’s in a hangar in Hong Kong, not falling apart off the coast of Alaska.  Pete is safe, she’s unharmed, Helena is—

Myka’s stomach clenches, the air pushing out of her lungs, and she’s sucked back into the drift, standing behind Helena, watching dumbly as the other woman tries desperately to save her daughter’s life.  The pavement under them is stained with blood from the scattered birdshot wounds, more and more of it pumping out of the body the harder Helena tries.

“Helena,” Myka says weakly.  “You can’t—Helena, this is just a memory, you have to get back to now.  This isn’t happening again, this isn’t real, you’re just—”

She stops the CPR abruptly, bowing over the body.  Myka’s mouth snaps shut, her breath fogging the inside of her helmet as her eyes start to water when a broken, animalistic scream echoes around them.  Helena’s entire body shakes, shoulders jerking with every sob, her fingers clenching into the stained material of her daughter’s coat.

A series of gunshots goes off behind them, and Myka ducks instinctively, spinning around in search of the noise.  They’re in an alley, the air heavy with smoke and dust.  The ground shudders periodically, the familiar sounds of a kaiju and a jaeger ricocheting off of the alley walls; in the street, people are running to and fro, firing shots into the air and breaking shop windows.

“Looters,” Myka breathes out. More shots ring out, and suddenly Helena is stalking out of the alley, bloody hands curling into fists.  “Helena!  Helena, stop, get out of this memory.”

Myka’s head aches, Helena’s memory warring with Pete’s voice and Claudia’s efforts to pull them out.  Somewhere in the distance, Gipsy’s hands curve into fists as well, the action triggering the plasma cannon in the right arm.

“Helena!” Myka shouts, sprinting down the alley.  Helena stalks out into the fray, grabbing the nearest looter by the collar and throwing him to the ground, foot slamming into his ribs.  She grabs the gun out of his hand, throws a punch to his jaw, moves onto the next one.  She works her way systematically through the looters, breaking jaws and ribs easily on her way to where a man is stuffing jewelry from a pawn shop into his jacket pockets, a shotgun slung over one shoulder.

“Helena, come on, you can’t do this, not in here.  You need to get out of this rabbit hole, Gipsy is still responding to you—“

Helena grabs the man with the shotgun, rage radiating off of her and pulsing through Myka, and throws him to the ground, dropping down with a knee on his throat.  She yanks the shotgun away from him, cocking it with one hand and pressing it against his stomach, the handgun jamming into his cheekbone.

“Helena, no!” Myka shouts, even as Gipsy follows Helena, cannon cocking back and aiming at the ground.  Her stomach lurches as Gipsy sways, off balance as Myka tries to keep control through Helena’s rage.

Helena’s hands shake, knuckles white around the guns and fingers trembling over the triggers.  Her thumb flicks the safety off on the handgun.

“Helena, get out of here!”

They snap back to the present abruptly.  The hangar appears in front of her, people still sprinting out of the way of Gipsy’s cannon; Myka yanks her helmet off and jerks out of the harness, powering Gipsy down and scrambling over to Helena’s side.  The other woman all but collapses, falling out of the harness half-unconscious.  Myka slides to the floor, Helena crumpling, catatonic, into her lap.

“It’s okay,” Myka says, panting.  She pries the helmet off of Helena, pushing her sweaty hair back out of her blank eyes.  “It’s okay, you’re okay.  It was just a memory, you’re okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later, they sit outside of Pentecost’s office, listening as Chuck Hansen shouts and Pete and Herc try to talk him down. 

“The first time is always the worst,” Myka says quietly.  Helena doesn’t move, arms and legs still crossed primly, gaze focused somewhere in the distance.  “You were doing fine until I got thrown off.  It’s my fault.”

Chuck slams out of the office, shoving the door shut behind them.

“There’s no way in _hell_ I’m going anywhere near a kaiju with you,” he snarls, shoving a finger in Helena’s direction.  “You’re a goddamned menace, lady.”

“Hey, back off,” Myka says, standing and shoving his hand away.

“Get out of here,” Chuck says with a sneer.  “Go crawl back into your hole.  You couldn’t even do your job with a real copilot, and now I’m expected to trust you to watch _my_ back with your homicidal girlfriend losing her shit—”

Myka’s left hook slams into his jaw, sending him reeling back.  She follows with a flurry of punches, driving him back into the wall.  Helena watches impassively, even as Chuck lands a knee to Myka’s ribs and Myka’s elbow crashes into his temple, blood spilling out over one side of his face from the impact.

“Rangers!” Pentecost roars, grabbing them both and throwing them across the hall.  “ _Behave_.”

Herc jerks Chuck away by the jacket, dragging him down the hall.  Pentecost glares down at Myka, who stares stubbornly back even as she stands at attention.  He turns to face Helena, who doesn’t even blink.

“Neither of you will be getting into a jaeger,” he says lowly. 

“Oh, come off it,” Helena snaps.  “We got it under control, no one was injured.”

“Be quiet,” Pentecost says.  “I knew you were too angry to pilot a jaeger, and I was right.  And you, Bering, are too traumatized to pair with an unstable rookie.  You can return to your boring little job in Ohio and wait for the end of the world like the rest of us.”

“We made a mistake,” Myka says evenly.  “And we corrected it.  We’re compatible, and you need Gipsy.”

“I will not take the risk that you add to the danger that these crews already face!”

“We don’t,” Myka says.

“No, you won’t, because you’ll be sitting in your bunk,” Pentecost says.  “There is no discussion.”  He strides away, punching the button for the elevator.

“I—I’ll see if I can talk to him,” Pete says from his place in the doorway to Pentecost’s office.  He offers Myka a half-hearted smile before jogging off after Pentecost.

“Pete can talk him down,” Myka says. 

“No, he can’t,” Helena says, finally standing and starting off in the other direction.

“Did you kill him?” Myka asks quietly.  Helena jerks to a hault, not turning around.  “The man who shot your daughter.  Did you kill him?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Because if you’re still on some revenge quest, then I can’t trust you.”

Helena laughs, dry and brittle.  “Don’t worry, ranger.  He’s long since out of the picture.”

“So you did kill him.”

“I did not.”

“Then—”

“Stacker did,” Helena says coolly.  “When he was still Ranger Pentecost, not Marshal.”  She smiles, thin and sharp.  “He was piloting a jaeger that day and defeated the kaiju shortly before Christina—he saw me and stopped me from killing him.

“He shot him instead, and then carried his body out into the ocean with his jaeger.”

“Oh,” Myka says, shifting uneasily.

“I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.  Perhaps I’ve never quite forgiven him, either,” Helena says darkly.  She pushes a hand through her hair, sighing.  “I apologize for ruining your chances, Bering.  Best of luck.”

She walks away, steps quick and arms tucked around herself protectively.  Myka stares after her, a hand pressed absently over her own mouth.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Myka wakes earlier than she wants to.  The mess hall is cavernous and empty, too empty, so she balances her tray in one hand and a thermos of coffee in  the other and makes her way to the hangar.  The triplets are playing basketball, the hangar silent except for the sounds of their shoes and the ball.  Myka takes the long way around and climbs up to the catwalk the faces Gipsy Danger.

Helena is already sitting there, legs dangling over the edge and chin propped on the railing.  She glances back at Myka briefly before turning back to face Gipsy.

“Sorry, I can—”

“Stay,” Helena says quietly. 

“I can stay,” Myka says, a smile tugging at her mouth anyways.  She takes a seat a few feet from Helena, settling with her tray, and offers Helena the thermos.  “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” Helena murmurs.  Myka edges the tray closer to her, a meager offering of a bagel and an orange that Myka starts to peel.

“How long have you been up here?”

“A few hours, I suppose.”  Helena hands the thermos back to her, accepting a slice of orange.  “I didn’t sleep well.”

“The first time I went into the drift with Pete, I had a migraine for days,” Myka says.  She smiles at Gipsy.  “I still maintain that that was Pete’s fault.”

“How did you two find out that you were compatible?”

“Sheer dumb luck,” Myka says.  “I had just finished college and was about to move back east to train with the FBI, Pete was in the Marines.  After a kaiju hit the California coastline again, there was all of this panic and rioting, and we both volunteered to be part of the search and rescue squad.  We were sweeping a building that this drug cartel was using as a safehouse, we got jumped, and we—fought our way out.  Pete’s CO could see it from across the street, with binoculars, he said we were too in tune with each other to not at least try.  The program was still pretty new then, and we just—clicked.”

“I see,” Helena says slowly. 

“We’re good, Helena,” Myka says.  “You and me.  I know what a good drift feels like, and we had it—have it.”

“Yes, well, apparently that’s not up to either of us,” Helena says snottily.

“Yeah, well,” Myka echoes.  “Maybe Pete can talk him down.”

“Somehow I don’t see that—”

An alarm sounds, startling them both.  Helena sits up so abruptly she smacks her head against the upper railing, and Myka drops her orange slice, leaving it to tumble down off the catwalk.

“What’s—”

“Another one surfaced,” Helena says.  “Come on.”  She’s suddenly on her feet, moving smooth like water and pulling Myka along with her.  “Even if we can’t pilot, we’re still technically Rangers, he can’t keep us out of command.”

By the time they make it to the command room, the crews are already deploying, the Russians and the triplets on point.  Over the speakers, Chuck and Herc’s mutual frustration rings through their orders to hang back.

When the second kaiju surfaces, it shifts from a struggle to a bloodbath.  Pentecost’s shoulders are shaking, subtle but evident, as Crimson Typhoon is all but ripped apart; Pete sways on his feet, pale and sickly, and Myka grips his good shoulder.  Helena is at Claudia’s side, the two of them looking for anything to offer help, but the blast that leaves Herc and Chuck dead in the water stumps even them.

The Russians buckle, Cherno Alpha cracking and starting to fill with water, and Myka finally snaps.  “Marshal, you have to let us suit up.  We can help.”

Helena swivels around at Myka’s words, eyes darting from Myka to Pentecost and hands still on a keyboard.  Pentecost inhales sharply, his nose flaring and his jaw clenching, and he glances between the two of them and then back to the monitors.

“Go.”

Without a word, Myka presses a kiss to Pete’s cheek and sprints out of the room, Helena matching her strides all the way to the hangar.  They suit up in record time, and in the split second of calm as Claudia counts them down to the handshake, Myka glances over to where Helena stands.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“I know,” Helena says with a wink.  Myka scoffs, rolling her eyes, and sinks into the drift.  The first flashes of Pete’s maiming and Helena’s loss tighten her chest, but they push past it in tandem.  There’s a momentary glimpse of Pentecost, younger and less stern, looking down at Helena with a fond smile, but it disappears before Myka can fully comprehend it.

Fighting in the drift with Helena is different.  Pete functioned entirely on intuition, his instinct winning out regularly over Myka’s strictness.  Helena, though, is purely rational, their minds swimming with predictions of the kaiju’s reactions and catalogues of its weak spots, leaving Myka to take the helm on the creativity front.

It’s not until they’re being lifted into the sky, caught in the grasp of a kaiju that can _fly_ with a dead cannon, that Myka wavers with doubt.  It lasts for the shortest of moments, before she’s swept into Helena’s thought processes and the sword, long forgotten, never used, uncoils from Gipsy’s arm and snaps into being.

Somewhere, distant over the headset, Myka’s convinced she can hear Pete whooping his approval.  The kaiju screams, the noise rattling through Gipsy’s head and into Myka’s, when the blades slices through one wing, then the second, then across its throat with expert strokes. 

Then they fall.  Myka reacts before Helena, flinging Gipsy’s hands out to slow their fall with the thrusters, but it’s Helena who stalls the action, mumbling something about velocity and firing the thrusters at the right time to dampen the impact.

“Whoa,” Myka says after a long moment.  Helena laughs quietly, shaking her head.

“Told you we’d do well,” Helena says.

“I’m pretty sure I told you,” Myka throws back.

“Frivolous details,” Helena says dismissively.  There’s a jerk as the tow lines hook into Gipsy, and they’re lifted out of the water by a fleet of helicopters. 

“Great jobs, ducklings,” Claudia says over the airwaves.  “ETA for home is two minutes, see you when you get here.”  There’s a pause, and then she whispers, “The Marshal won’t admit it, but you guys were a beast and a half, dudes.”

“Thanks, Claud,” Myka says with a smile.  “See you at home.”

“Roger that,” Claudia says cheerfully.  “I gotta go figure out how to fix Striker.  Pete’s gonna take over til y’all get home.”

“Heyo,” Pete says, enthusiasm rocketing into their earpieces.  “You guys are freaking _awesome_.”

“Yes, we really were, weren’t we?” Helena says, smirking over at Myka.

“Don’t encourage her, Pete.”  Myka rolls her eyes.  “Are Herc and Chuck okay?”

“Chuckles is fine, except being annoyed, so he’s being more of a dick than usual.  Herc is—he’s—” Pete stumbles over the words, his voice creaking slightly.  “His right arm is busted up pretty badly.”

“Oh,” Myka says faintly.  “Pete, are you—”

There’s a sharp jolt and a clunk as Gipsy is lowered into her hangar.

“Disengaging in fifteen seconds,” Pete says authoritatively.  “Command signing off.”  A click cuts off their communication, and a few moments after that, they’re jerked out of the drift.  Myka yanks her helmet off and rubs at her eyes tiredly.

“Are you alright?” Helena asks quietly. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just worried about Pete.”

“You do realize that I can tell when you’re lying now, right?”

Myka smiles crookedly, pushing a loose strand of hair back.  “I was kind of hoping you hadn’t had a chance to figure out everything about me yet.  It took me and Pete a few weeks.”

“It doesn’t necessarily take a genius to see that you’re shaken,” Helena says, then she smirks good naturedly.  “Though I _can_ lay claim to that qualification if necessary.  But you lost your copilot once because of a crippling injury, and now Mr. Hansen may be—”

“Yeah,” Myka interrupts.  “I—yeah, I know.”  Her nose wrinkles as she regards Helena.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of arrogant?”

“All the time,” Helena says breezily.  The door slides open, and she beckons Myka through first, bowing halfway.  “I’ve also been told that I’m even more charming than I am arrogant.”

“Modestly isn’t even in your vocabulary, is it?”

“Nonsense,” Helena says with a wink.  “I’m fully aware of the word and its proper uses.  It just so happens that none of them apply to me.”

Myka laughs in spite of herself.  A handful of technicians dance around them, pulling the suits free and storing the pieces away.  Helena sighs in relief as the metal and plastic leave her body, and pushes her hands through her sweaty hair.

“Goodness,” she mumbles.  “I’ve never considered short hair before now.  How can you stand it?”

“It drives her crazy,” Pete interjects, materializing in front of them with a broad grin on his face.  “She just won’t admit it.”

“Shut up,” Myka says, disgruntled but smiling nonetheless.  Pete yanks her into a hug, his arm tight around her waist.

“You were great,” he murmurs into her ear.  “Told you you didn’t need me,”

“Shut up,” she whispers into his shoulder, clinging to him tightly.  “Don’t say that.” 

“It’s true,” he says, stepping back after a long moment and punching her on the arm affectionately.  He turns to Helena and holds his hand up for a high five.  “You’re a badass, Wells.  Thanks for keeping this one out of trouble.”

“Excuse me,” Myka protests even as Helena offers a cocky _you’re quite welcome_.  “I’m not the troublemaker here.”

Pentecost clears his throat from behind them, and they all jump in surprise.  “We have work to do,” he says grimly.  “We lost half of our fighting power today.  Let’s go.”

“Spoilsport,” Helena mutters even as she follows him out of the room.  Her fingers brush casually against Myka as she passes, landing on her hipbone and skimming around and across her lower back.  Myka’s stomach twists at the touch, her breath catching somewhere in her throat, and Pete gapes at her for a moment before a slow grin spreads on his face.

“You are such a _stud_ ,” he whispers in her ear, punching her in the arm again and striding after Helena. 

“I’m not a—Pete!” she snaps, chasing after him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Herc’s arm is broken in five places.  It will heal, slowly but surely.  Pete’s relief at the news is tinged with sadness, and Myka watches from where she and Helena lean against an empty hospital bed.  Helena’s side is pressed casually against Myka’s, and Myka leans against her new partner as she watches her old one in sympathy.

Pentecost is nowhere to be seen, supposedly in search of a new copilot for Chuck.  Myka and Helena leave the infirmary, quiet and unnoticed, as Pete settles into the chair next to Chuck’s, doing his best to cheer the two of them up. 

“Stacker is going to go with Chuck,” Helena says, abrupt and calm, when they’re halfway back to the barracks.

“What?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she says with a shrug.  “He’s got more experience in a jaeger than anyone else here, and he’s barricaded his own thoughts and emotions for long enough that it won’t be a problem for him to pilot with Chuck.”  She pauses, pushing a hand through her hair.  It’s still damp from the short time they’d had to shower before going to visit Herc, and is curling modestly in the dry air of Shatterdome.  “And he’s already dying.”

“He’s _what_?” Myka’s voice rises half an octave, her steps faltering.

“Isn’t it obvious?”  Helena’s jaw is tight, her smirk false.  “Surely you’ve heard about the hazards of the old jaegers, the radiation exposure.”

“How did—how do you know him?” Myka veers off course at the last second, her arms folding over her stomach.  “You knew him before you came here.  Before your—“

“Yes,” Helena says shortly.  “I did.”

“How?”

“That’s hardly your business—”

“ _You_ are my copilot,” Myka says sharply.  “That makes everything you bring into the drift my business.  If he’s taking Herc’s place, then we’re all going to the breach together.  I need to know what baggage the two of you are dragging into this.”

“Baggage is quite the condescending term—”

“Helena,” Myka says.  Her voice is thin, teetering on the edge between exhaustion and frustration, and Helena’s mouth snaps shut at the sound.  She sighs, rubbing a hand over her eyes, and takes a seat on the steps leading to Myka’s room.

“He was a friend of my brother’s,” Helena explains.  “Charles had just finished university when the first kaiju attacked.  He was a journalist, he somehow got himself embedded with a regiment in the Royal Navy.  Stacker was the commanding officer.”

Her arms wrap around her stomach, her shoulders slumping tiredly.  Myka sits next to her, cautious and reserved.  Her arms hang uselessly at her sides, hesitant, before her hand curls up from its spot next to her foot, wrapping around Helena’s ankle reassuringly.  It’s something Pete does, the desperate need for the reassurance of regular contact.

“I was pulled out of the doctoral program at university after the second attack.  Stacker had already informally adopted my brother and I after our parents were killed in a car accident, and he recruited me into helping with the technology early in the jaeger program.  I had—we, Christina and I—were on a vacation in Tokyo when the—when she was—”

“I’m sorry,” Myka says, helpless and useless.  “For what happened.”

“Stacker killed him.”  Her fingers brush against Myka’s wrist, fingers trembling and skin cool.  “He wouldn’t let me, he did it.  We’ve barely spoken since then.”  Her fingers slip away from Myka’s arm, wrapping around one another.  “I would have killed that man and everyone else there.”

“I know,” Myka says softly.

“I know you do.”  Helena looks over at her briefly, eyes heavy and jaw firm.  “I saw what happened to your—to that boy you were with, during the first attack.”

“Sam,” Myka says quietly.  “His name was Sam.  We were engaged.”  She smiles, sad and hollow, and looks away from Helena. 

“I’m sorry.”  Helena’s apology rings as pointlessly as Myka’s did, falling flat in the empty hallway.  Long moments pass before Helena stands quietly and, without a word, slips across the hall and disappears into her room.

 


End file.
